You can't break the wings of an airplane
without industrial techniques.
And you can only break a writer
once you've broken both her steel-clad hands.

For the writer, you're a passing dream,
for her it's all just fuel.
And despite all of your slander,
I'm the engine you can't stop.
I am the language bred eternal,
in every living thing.

You haven't the tools. You haven't the chisel
you haven't the balls, you haven't the muscle.
You can take my home and homeland,
you can slander, steal, and argue,
you can twist the social mores:
you can tell me you're the victim,
but the pen will write anew.

You cannot break my heart, fool:
I am only broken by the word.
You cannot break my wings, fool:
my wings are made of words.
You can lie and you can whisper,
you can imply and you can bluster.
You can poke her, you can prod her:
you can lock her out of heaven,
but the word doesn't answer to you.

And thus, and sweetly, with a broad and ready smile,
and thus and very sweetly, and nothing such and so:
I'd like to invite you now to come at me, bro.